Ed­i­tor’s Let­ter; Things We Love; Me­gan Ni­col Reed

Weekend Herald - Canvas - - CONTENTS - MICHELLE HUR­LEY

Grace Jones never gets old, and I mean that in both senses. I first saw her per­form when I was a ten­der 17, at a gay dance party in Syd­ney on New Year’s Eve. The party started at 10, and Jones was due to per­form at mid­night. Mid­night came and went; then 1am, 2am, 3am … still no Jones. It wasn’t un­til 4am that she fi­nally took to the stage. By the time she’d fin­ished per­form­ing, sun­light was creep­ing through the cracks of the win­dow shades. A cou­ple of days later, my un­cle, a very straight tax ac­coun­tant, who man­aged the af­fairs of a lot of en­ter­tain­ers and pro­mot­ers, came to our house. My mum asked him how his New Year’s had been, and he launched into a story about how he’d been fast asleep when the phone had rung about 11pm. It was Grace Jones’ man­ager, say­ing she was re­fus­ing to per­form un­til she got paid. My un­cle told her man­ager that Ms Jones would be paid af­ter she per­formed, as per her con­tract. This tit-for-tat went on for a cou­ple of hours, un­til my un­cle fi­nally got in his car, drove the Hor­den Pav­il­ion to front Jones and tell her she needed to go on if she wanted to get paid. Some­how, he con­vinced her and I’m glad he did, be­cause she pretty much blew the roof off the house that night.

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